The cabbage merchant slumped to the ground in defeat and put his head in his hands. “Every time,” he moaned. “Every single time.”

Ranka danced away from the heat. The witch snatched up the stamp, marked her card, and dropped it into her pocket.

Six more arrows were lit.

“Okay! I surrender!” Ranka blurted. She dropped to her knees, and her voice emerged in a nervous chatter. “Sorry for the commotion—I was sick of waiting in line. Not built for the heat and all that. Can’t blame a girl for wanting a dramatic entrance.”

The guards paused, plainly confused.

“I mean, you have been looking for me—haven’t you?”

And before they could move—before they could look back at the witch slipping through the gates—Ranka tossed back her hood, still kneeling, and unfurled the poster.

The guards froze, their faces slackening. A murmur went up from the crowd. They’d all seen the poster before. It’d been printed in their very city, identical to the thousands plastered across Isodal, covered in a rough sketch and garish text.

WANTED ALIVE

RANKA OF THE SKRA

NAMED BLOODWINN

APPROX. 6’2”, BLONDE OF HAIR, LEFT CHEEK SCARRED

APPROACH WITH CAUTION. HIGHLY DANGEROUS & KNOWN KILLER.

REWARD: 80,000 G & AUDIENCE WITH PRINCE GALEN

She hated those damned posters. The humans made her sound like some kind of criminal eager to see a war break out, when all she’d ever wanted was to be left alone.

Five years she’d hidden. In the end, whoever had given up Ranka’s identity to the palace knew her well enough to describe her down to her scar.

“Lights above.” A burning arrow clattered to the dirt. The lead guard’s legs twitched, as if he wasn’t certain if he should chase her or kneel. “I—I almost shot you.”

“I don’t suppose you could put the fire out?” Her voice came out higher than usual.

The first rule little witchlings learned was that if you smelled smoke, if you heard that crackle of flame, you ran.

Humans burned witches for a reason. When witchery manifested in a human child, tinting their nails and sharpening their senses, something in them changed, altering the chemical makeup of their very cells. Witches burned brighter, faster, hotter. Their strength faltered in the presence of flame. The more powerful the witch, the more susceptible they were.

Flame was a nuisance to a witch like Yeva. To Ranka, it might as well have been poison.

Memories wormed free—charred bodies in the snow; ribbons of red, orange, and cruel blue flame licking over homes, echoed by her sister’s screams.

Ranka didn’t open her eyes until the fire was out.

Guards hauled her to her feet, their touch hesitant but firm, as if not quite certain how to handle her. They frog-marched her toward the city, hollering for replacements, for the prince to be notified. Ranka twisted as they passed under the gates of Seaswept.